


heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies

by giucorreias



Series: flufftober 2018 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Canon Fix-It, Flufftober 2018, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 23:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16251944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: Lily dies. James doesn't.or: James deals with losing his wife and manages to raise Harry on a loving household.





	heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be flufftober, but it's sort of very angsty instead, ops. It's not my fault if the political environment of my country is making me want to write sad things. Anyway, it's sad and late, but it's done and that's what matters.
> 
> For flufftober's day 7, canon fix-it.

One of the first things James thinks when he sees Voldemort approaching is, among other things, _I owe Remus an apology_. It doesn’t really register that he might never get the chance to apologize, after all, up until the moment Lily’s running up the stairs, towards Harry, and he is facing Voldemort with no wand and no hope of winning.

His last thought, before the spell hits him, is for his wife and his son. His first thought, when he wakes up to Padfoot’s worried face, still laying down against the cold hard floor of his living room, is for his wife and his son. He finds out, soon enough, that Lily is dead—and _oh_ , how it makes it hard to breath, to see her lifeless body stumped against Harry’s crib, the trail of tears still wet on her face. But then he hears a low, soft sound coming from the crib, and eyes too much like Lily’s look up at him. Suddenly, his lungs are working again.

Harry, his little bundle of sunshine, is still alive.

Voldemort, Dumbledore tells him later, is not.

The war is won.

  
  


James never expected to be a father—or, _well_ , he did expect to be a father one day, but in that distant, wishful thinking way people do when they’re hopelessly in love with a girl. When they expect to win the girl over, then marry her, _then_ have children, ten or twenty years into the future, after being an adult for a while and _after_ having life all figured out.

But there was a war going on, people being killed left and right, and everything was so very urgent. He went to sleep every night and he didn’t know whether he was going to see the next sunrise, whether he was going to live to be thirty.

He didn’t know whether he’d be given the chance to grow old next to Lily and know her better than he knew himself.

Of course he had to ask her to marry him, then, one night under the stars, while they traded spells with a group of death eaters. They had been back to back, shoulders touching—her presence comforting behind him, keeping him safe—and James had blurted _we should get married_ , just as he shielded them from a particularly nasty curse that could have cost them their lives.

She had laughed, bright and happy—very much alive—, before saying _this is a poor excuse for a proposal, dear, I know you can do better_.

The thing is—the thing _is_ —after that impromptu proposal, nothing really followed as planned. James had thought _we get married and we survive, and when this is done we get our happily ever after_ . James had thought _one day we’ll move into my family’s home, and sit in the porch listening to the laugh of our children_.

Lily had gotten pregnant, instead. They had gone into hiding. They had trusted the wrong person. And now he is alive and she is dead.

Now he has a son to raise on his own, and a friendship to mend, and a life to live he has no idea what to do with.

Harry is crying and all he wants to do is cry, too, but he can’t, he _can’t_ . He holds him close, instead, soothes him. James thinks _I miss her more than anything I have ever missed in my life_ . He says _It’s going to be ok, we’re alive, we’re alive_.

  
  


He takes a while to settle. The house is way too big for a man and a little boy, and he feels more like a ghost than a real person, walking through the corridors his parents walked through, remembering the dreams he had of him and Lily and Harry all living together, at this very same place. His friendship with Padfoot and Moony is stilted—they’re all a little broken, now, battered and bruised and guilty, all betrayed—, but they have _history_ , and eventually it gets better.

Not good, not just yet, but… better.

  
  


He puts Harry to sleep beside him in bed, instead of his own crib. It’s been a month or two or three, he isn’t entirely too sure—the days bleed together and go by faster than he can keep up with them, sometimes.

That night, Harry doesn’t cry himself to sleep, doesn’t ask for Lily. That night, James doesn’t lay in bed until the first light of the next morning, watching the ceiling and missing the warmth of his wife’s body beside him.

He watches his son, instead—wild hair falling over his chubby face, little thumb inside his mouth, chest rising and falling slowly.

He wakes up to Harry’s small body nestled against his chest, arms wrapped around his son protectively. The boy is awake, already, but silent. He’s watching his dad with bright, smart eyes.

James smiles at him—he feels rested, for once—and his smile isn’t even tinged with guilt, this time (Lily would want him to be happy, he knows, he _knows_ ). He tickles Harry’s belly, light fingers against the soft cotton of his pyjamas. Harry laughs.

It’s the most beautiful sound he’s heard in a long time.

  
  


The boxes are all piled up against the door and Remus vanishes them with a flick of his wand, no spell necessary. With the exception of some pictures and trinkets here and there—with the exception of Harry’s very green eyes—there is almost nothing of Lily’s left on the house.

Sirius was the one to convince him to do this—to tell him over and over that it couldn’t be healthy to keep on living on a place full of reminders of the life they had. He was right, of course. James forgets, sometimes, that his friend has lost much more than he did, with the war—Sirius is still the same person he has always been, loyal and mischievous in turns, so very full of youth. It’s both tiring and comforting, his sameness.

James watches the boxes disappear, and then keeps looking at the place they had been for a very long time—only stops when Harry bumps against his legs, pulls on his clothes to ask for attention.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he says. “Play ball.”

James crouches, to look his son in the eye.

“Do you want daddy to come and play with you?”

Harry nods, seriously, his messy hair falling over his forehead, hiding his scar. James takes his wand out of his pocket, then summons the ball, to which Harry smiles, delighted. James can’t help but smile back.

  
  


James watches as the cookie jar floats slowly from the top of the counter towards Harry’s hand. There’s a soft smile playing on his lips as Harry tries—and fails—to open the lid. Harry hasn’t seen him, and James isn’t actually planning on giving his presence away just yet, because he’s curious to see how much does Harry want the cookies and how far is he willing to go to get them.

James thinks, distantly, that Lily would probably not approve of this, but before he can follow this train of thought any further Harry decides to give up on hitting the jar against the floor, noisily, and has it hugged against his chest as he turns. James, who is leaning against the door frame, is instantly spotted.

“Daddy!” he says. His face opens on a delighted smile, and he offers the jar to his father. “Cookie!”

“Are you hungry, then?” James comes into the kitchen, bare feet against the linoleum, and plucks the jar from his son’s hands. “How about a fruit instead?”

Harry pouts. “No!”

“How about this, huh? If you eat a whole apple, I’ll give you a cookie.”

Harry seems to think about it, and finds the offer acceptable, because he nods. “Promise?”

“Of course, baby boy.”

He puts the jar back on the counter, then starts peeling an apple. After he’s done, he sits down on the floor, legs crossed, and slowly feeds his son. He thinks, then, that he’s doing the best he can—not exactly all on his own, because he has Sirius and Remus, but without the steadying presence of Lily.

That’s fine. His best is not bad. He might go as far as saying it’s… good.

(It is, at the very least, better than the alternative. James can’t see Sirius growing up fast enough to be the sole father figure of a little boy. He doesn’t even consider that Harry might have gone to someone else, had he died.

That’s unthinkable.)

  
  


It stops, eventually. He doesn’t _forget_ Lily—he can’t—but he doesn’t compare what he does to what Lily might have done anymore. He doesn’t think she might disapprove of this or that—no. He thinks, instead, she would have been proud. Harry is growing up to be a kind, inquisitive little boy, fiercely protective and extremely hardworking.

He defends the rights of werewolves to any who are willing to hear him out, telling them about his uncle Moony who helped defeat Voldemort when many cowered. He refuses to let the other kids bully Neville, regardless of the fact that the boy doesn’t seem to have a lot of magic in him. He does his chores, dutifully and without magic, whenever the time comes for him to do so.

  
  


“She loved you,” he says, one night, when Harry asks about his mother. “She loved you fiercely, more than anything. There was nothing she wouldn’t have done to keep you safe.”

It’s not… easy, to talk about this. But it isn’t hard, either. He doesn’t choke, or cry. Instead, he remembers—fiery red hair, deep green eyes, soft lips. Unwavering loyalty, crazy stubbornness, willingness to always see the good in people.

He misses her, but it’s a good feeling. Like… looking back at the time they had together and remembering how happy they were, despite everything.

“Tell me again the story of how you proposed,” Harry asks. And James does.

  
  


On the 1st of September, 1991, James crosses the barrier between the platforms nine and ten—hand in hand with his son, who is holding their now eleven-year-old cat on his arms, Sirius and Remus right behind them.

James is feeling nervous like he has never felt nervous before.

“Remember,” Sirius says. “That if you get into Hufflepuff, we’ll never talk to you ever again.” Remus elbows him, and Sirius laughs. “Just kidding, darling. Hufflepuff is a great house, so close to the kitches. But seriously, Slytherin is out of limits. Don’t bring this shame into your family line.”

“Padfoot,” James complains, arms crossed. “Don’t scare my son. Harry, we’ll love you even if you get into Slytherin. There’s no shame in being from either house, I promise.”

Remus clears his throat. “Harry, do you have everything? Your wand, your books, your material?”

“Yes, Moony.” Harry nods dutifully, cat still on his arms.

“Good.” Remus kneels on the floor, to adjust Harry’s wild hair. It’s doomed to fail, though, as Harry’s hair refuses to be anything but messy at all times. Behind him, Sirius takes advantage of Remus’ distraction to wink at his godson.

“Have you taken the map?” he mouths. Harry smiles, as an answer. Suspicious, Remus looks towards Sirius, who has the phoniest innocent face James has ever seen. James snorts. Sirius only says: “Make us proud, darling.”

Harry leaves. The train departs. And James... he remains on the platform with his friends and other parents who probably already miss their children, feeling unbearably lonely. There’s an uncomfortable tightness on his stomach, the angst of being away from his only son for the first time. It’s alright, though—James remembers his time in Hogwarts with nothing but fondness.

He links his arms with Sirius and Remus, crosses back into King’s Cross, and starts walking towards the nearest pub. He thinks of Lily, quickly, in the back of his mind. He wonders, simply, if she’s watching their son embark on his magical journey, from wherever she is.

He hopes so.

He’s going to make her so proud.


End file.
